


Of Fevers and Foes

by please_good_sir



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Caretaker Harry, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad Draco Malfoy, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/please_good_sir/pseuds/please_good_sir
Summary: Draco just wanted to make it through Eighth Year. Harry, as always, was suspicious.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy was exhausted.

Dead-eyed, sallow skinned, he trudged through the halls of Hogwarts like the ghost of a forgotten world. That's what he was, in a way—the last of a dying race. The Pureblood race. _Let them die_ , he thinks, and himself along with them. He liked to pretend that he wasn't a part of those terrible people, a part of the things they'd done, and the beliefs they held, but the mark on his arm proved otherwise. He, and the rest of the Wizarding World, would never forget that.

The things he'd been forced to see, to do during the War weighed heavily upon him as he trudged an stumbled through the shattered remains of his life. Sometimes he was so overwhelmed by the past that he forgot how to breathe, how to think; he would lie there in his room for hours in his room waiting for the tremors and flashbacks to pass.

The panic attacks had come as a bit of a surprise, if he was honest. After all, he'd managed to go an entire year with _H_ _im_ breathing down his neck without succumbing to the roiling waves of fear washing through him. Alas, he supposed Occlumency shields could only get you so far, and the constant glares and hexes flung at him in the halls had him spiraling down into a sobbing, hyperventilating mess more often than he cared to admit.

He remembered one time in September when a Fifth Year Hufflepuff had managed to charm his robes to smell like burnt flesh. The blonde had barely had time to stumble into to the nearest bathroom before he was falling to his knees and vomiting up every bit of the meager breakfast he'd choked down that morning. When his body had finally granted him a second to breathe, he'd glanced up only to find the one and only Harry Potter staring down a him with a mix of shock and confusion adorning his face. Needless to say, Draco had meticulously avoided the Gryffindor ever since that incident.

He hadn't wanted to return to Hogwarts this year. He had no desire to see the empty seats in the Great Hall, to feel the claws of guilt well up in his throat. He didn't enjoy walking the halls at night, face blank and eyes dull as he try not to think about the fact that somewhere in this castle, Vincent's ashes were lying cold and forgotten on the floor. Sometimes he almost wished he'd been thrown in Azkaban, if only so he wouldn't have to feel so terribly dirty all the time, like he'd cheated somehow. He supposed, in a way, he had.

Being Draco Malfoy had become incredibly lonely.

The Ministry insisted on his return here for the first months of his parole, likely hoping the students would be kind enough to take his Death Eater arse off their hands. So far, none had managed to permanently maim him, but the constant stream of Stinging Hexes being flung his way served as an excellent reminder of just how many people were out to get him. He couldn't blame them, though.

So when a particularly nasty hex from a Seventh Year Ravenclaw girl nearly bowled him over in the hallway one sunny October morning, he wasn't all that surprised, nor was he when he nearly puked all over the bed that evening from the blinding headache in his skull. He figured it was probably some sort of migraine hex, but when he woke up the following morning and his previous symptoms were joined by stuffed sinuses and a strange, burning ache in his lungs, he realized it was perhaps something else entirely.

None of the curses he knew could cause such an illness, but Death Eaters weren't really the type to try to give their enemy a common cold, either, so he figured it made sense. He briefly considered seeing if Pomfrey might be willing to give him a vial of Pepper Up, but given how she'd refused to treat any of his previous ailments this year, he figured it unlikely. So, it seemed he'd just have to suffer through it. He dealt with worse, after all.

oOOo

He took it back. This is quite possibly the worse he's ever felt short of being Crucio'd by the Dark Lord (but really, that was a whole other category in and of itself). By the time Friday evening rolled around, Draco was just about ready to fall over.

He was fairly certain he had a fever, given the fuzzy, disconnected feeling of everything, and the strange ache in his chest made itself known through vicious coughing fits at least once an hour. He'd had to excuse himself from class several times to hack his lungs out in the bathroom (thank Merlin for Silencing Charms), and was fairly certain that he'd passed out for a few moment after the second fit. He couldn't really be sure, though.

That bitch from Ravenclaw still wouldn't leave him the fuck alone, either. Every time he stepped out around a corner in the hallways, it was like she was waiting for him, shining stream of new curses lined up at the ready. It was getting bloody annoying, at this point.

Speaking of, he'd just barely left the library to stumble towards the Eigth Year dorms (why did they have to put them so bloody far away?!) before a blinding whorl of light came soaring his way and crashed forcefully against his shields. He grunted, feeling the bubble of protective spells flicker, and quickly spun on his heel to head in the opposite direction.

There was a hidden corridor a just around the corner; if he could make it, he'd be okay. His footsteps hurried of their own accord and, ignoring the sudden itch that flared up in his sinuses as he made it to the faded tapestry that concealed the passage's entrance, he ducked behind it.

He'd just barely made it through the doorway before his nose twitched again, barely giving him time to draw in a sharp breath before he was snapping forward with a flurry of wet, itchy expulsions.

" _hih-_ ksh! ktsh! kxt! tsh!" By the time he'd finished, his vision swam and the pain in his skull had doubled in intensity. Draco groaned, cheeks flushing at his failure to cover the tiny explosions, despite there having been no one around to witness it. He slowly began making his way down the corridor, praying to every higher being he knew that his attacker hadn't followed him.

So lost in his fever-induced haze, he didn't even notice a tall, dark form peel away from the shadows of the one of the alcoves he passed until he was being being slammed back against the wall of the passage, head cracking painfully on the cold stones as he stared into the enraged face of one green-eyed Saviour.

"Just couldn't leave it alone, could you?" the raven-haired man hissed, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed in a fierce glare.

Draco, who was too busy trying to get the world to stop spinning to process anything that was happening, simply stuttered out a stupid, "W-what?"

The response only seemed to anger Potter more, and the brute shoved him harder against the wall, forearm digging into his pale throat and cutting off his already-compromised air supply. He wasn't sure at what point Potter came to be taller than him, but the olive-skinned wizard now towered a good head or so higher than him.

Draco pushed weakly against the other boy, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he tried to figure out what the bloody hell was going on.

"Don't play with me, Malfoy," the other boy growled, eyes narrowing further as the blonde continued to struggle. "I know you've been hiding something."

Black spots began to swim across Draco's vision, and he felt his grip on the Saviour's robes slowly slacken before his entire body eventually began to droop in Potter's hold.

Harry, utterly perplexed by this reaction, released the other boy, eyes widening as the blonde crumpled to the ground with a hoarse gasp that quickly turned into a series of harsh, wet coughs. Harry was pretty sure a person wasn't meant to sound like that, even after being choked halfway to death.

Draco clutched at his throat, gasping and wheezing as his lungs struggled to bring in air only to forcefully expel it again. There was a deep, burning ache in chest that throbbed with each rattling breath, and the black spots that had formed in his vision earlier now grew to completely block out his sight. Finally, after what felt like hours, the fit subsided, leaving him bent forward on the floor with one palm pressed to the ground, keeping himself from face-planting onto the floor. The blonde cautiously leaned pushed himself to lean back against the wall as he took shallow, controlled breaths, eyes fluttering shut as he fought against the wave of dizziness that the small action caused. 

"You're ill." Potter's voice was loud and clear in the quiet hall, tinged with an almost accusatory tone.

Draco cracked one silver eye open to glare at him. "I would think," he muttered, "that's fairly obvious at this point, Potter." He'd been aiming for a tone of bitter annoyance, but instead ended up sounding just plain exhausted. Sighing, he closed his eyes again and continued focusing on his breathing.

Harry shifted, glancing uncomfortably around the empty hallway as though it would contain the answers to this suddenly _very_ uncomfortable situation. A cruel, scheming, hiding-Dark-artifacts-in-the-castle Malfoy, he knew how to deal with. But a sick, vulnerable Malfoy? Merlin.

Draco, growing tired of Potter's awkward shuffles, lifted his hands to make a shooing motion at the other boy. "Go on, now, Oh Mighty Savior," he drawled, barely concealing a wince at how his voice scraped his already-stinging throat. "Can't have you missing any rendezvous with that red-headed bint of yours. Or perhaps you-"

"Goddammit Malfoy!" Potter burst, causing the other boy to jerk back in surprise. "Why do always have to be such a fucking arsehole?!"

Draco arched a perfectly-tailored brow. "I'm not the one who just ambushed an innocent bystander on their back way to their dorms."

Potter scoffed. "Innocent, yeah," he muttered, and Draco flinched. The action seemed to surprise Potter, who slowly stepped toward him, looking at him as though trying to decipher a particularly confusing code in Arithmancy. Normally, this would have been the part where Draco stood up, dusted off, and stormed away in a swish of black fabric, but at this point he thought he might fall over if he tried to stand, so instead he did the next best thing and curled up tighter into himself, glaring at his knees as he studiously ignored the other boy's presence.

Harry watched Malfoy for a long moment. There was something...odd, about the boy. He seemed...dull this year, different. Subdued. It was highly disconcerting, if he was honest. For a moment, the raven-haired boy considered just leaving the git to wallow in his obvious misery—Merlin knows he deserved it—but, as his eyes roamed over the pale, shivering form at his feet, Harry knew he couldn't do it.

"You should go to Pomfrey," he said at last.

Malfoy's head jerked up, brow creasing in bemusement as though wondering why the other boy was still there, before settling back into his usual cold sneer. "You think I haven't already tried that, you dolt?" he snapped. "The old bat doesn't give a flying fuck whether I live or die. No one does." The last bit was said quieter, smaller, and Harry doubted he was meant to hear it.

He stepped forward, keeping his face carefully neutral as he wrapped a hand around Malfoy's bicep and hauled the other boy to his feet with a grunt. "Come on," he muttered, ignoring the blonde's squawk of protest but pausing as it quickly turned into a strangled whine as the smaller man swayed suddenly on his feet, eyes squeezing shut and jaw clenched.

Harry sighed, adjusting his grip to grab hold of Malfoy's wrist and drape it over his shoulders, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. He waited until Malfoy's glazed silver orbs finally blinked open again and, frowning the startling heat radiating from the other man, slowly began down the corridor. Malfoy followed him silently, and Harry didn't know if he should be relieved or worried at the lack of insults from the Slytherin.

Ever since that encounter in the bathroom at the beginning of this year, the taller boy had known something was off with Malfoy. He'd been suspicious, at first, and angry, memories of Sixth Year flooding to the forefront of his mind as he watched the other boy sullenly make his way through classes and nibble at his meals. Hermione kept telling him to leave it alone, let the Aurors handle it for once, but Harry just couldn't shake the feeling for the past few weeks that something was wrong. He'd just never considered that the person in danger would be Malfoy himself.

As they rounded yet another corner in the path, Draco gave a quiet sigh, which his nose apparently took as a signal to make itself known again. The blonde gave a sharp sniff as tickle blossomed in his sinuses, muscles tensing as it began to grow stronger.

"Potter. Potter, stop," he mumbled, batting his free hand against the dark-haired man's chest as he tried to pull away.

Potter halted, but only tightened his grip as the blonde continued to struggle. "What is it, Malfoy?" he sighed.

Draco scowled, opening his mouth to tell the other boy just exactly where he could shove it, but was cut off as the itch in his nose prickled suddenly, and instead found himself twisting away to muffle a series of tiny, wet explosions against his wrist. "hihtchh! hihksh! tsh!"

He grimaced, lowering his hand with a wordless Scourgify and turned back to find Potter gazing at him with an indistinguishable expression on his face.

"What?" he snapped, cheeks heating.

He watched, bemused, as Potter's lips slowly twitched up into a smirk. "You sneeze like a kitten, Malfoy," he murmured, and if _that_ hadn't been the opposite of what Draco was expecting...

The blonde spluttered, face flushing a darkly as he shoved hard against Potter's chest (the arsehole didn't even budge). "I fucking do not," he grumbled, and Potter just chuckled, readjusting his grip around Draco before continuing their walk down the abandoned corridor.

They continued like that for a while, stopping every couple of minutes for Draco to muffle another sneezing or coughing fit into his shoulder. By the time they reached the Eighth Year dorms, Draco's head was spinning and the only thing keeping him from sinking to the floor in a heap of frazzled Slytherin was Potter's firm grip around his wrist and side. 

Thankfully, it was late enough that no one was there to witness as Harry Potter dragged a half-conscious Draco Malfoy across the common room and down the hallway for the male dorms. Draco's room was all the way at the end, made invisible by a strong series of disillusionment spells (he'd had to do that bit himself, of course; not like the school would actually be _considerate_ about the fact that the entire student body wanted to kill him), but Draco was too tired to give a shit that Potter now knew where to kill him in his sleep.

Together, the two boy shuffled through the door, Draco gripping Potter's bicep tightly as he toed of his shoes before stumbling over to the bed and sitting down with a huff. He drew his legs up to the mattress, sitting cross-legged as he gazed bemusedly at the other boy.

Potter said nothing, refusing to meet his gaze as he conjured a glass and filled it with a murmured _Aguamenti_.

Draco took the offering, sipping carefully at the cool liquid. Severus would be appalled at Draco's failure to check it wasn't poisoned, but at this point he couldn't really be bothered to care. He just wanted to sleep.

The water tasted sweet and cold, oddly refreshing, and, really, Draco should've figured that Potter would excel even at something as simple as an Aguamenti. "Why're you doing this?" he asked suddenly, eyes wide and startlingly clear as he looked up at the raven-haired man.

Potter returned his gaze solemnly, an unreadable emotion flickering in his eyes. "I don't know."

Something in Draco's chest deflated at the words, and he nodded, eyes falling back to the sheets. Potter cleared his throat awkwardly, turning to leave, and something in Draco panicked. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had reached out to grasp Potter's sleeve, yanking the other man around to face him.

"I didn't believe in him, you know," he blurted, eyes darting around the room as he looked anywhere other than Potter's startled expression. He let his hand fall back to his lap, fingers twisting nervously as he babbled on. "V-Voldemort. I didn't believe in what he was doing. I thought I did, at first - thought it was an- an _honor_ ," he spat the word, face twisted with bitter remorse as memories of his past actions swam through his head. "But it...I was wrong. I'm- I'm sorry." He glanced up, eyes wide and pleading for the other boy to understand. The intensity he found in Potter's eyes was almost too much to bear, and he had to look away after a few moment to breathe. "I'm sorry for all of it," he whispered, hands curling into fists in his lap. He wished there was some way to communicate to Potter just how sorry he really was.

When he finally chanced a glance back at Potter, the other man was staring out the window towards the grounds, an indecipherable expression on his face. "Christ, Malfoy," he eventually breathed, scrubbing a hand down his face while the other tugged at his hair. He looked so tired all of a sudden, like an insurmountable weight had been pressed upon his shoulders and he didn't know what to do but carry it. When he eventually dragged his gaze back towards Draco's, his eyes were a tangle of swirling emotions.

"I...You-you should get some rest," he muttered at last. Draco shivered, watching helplessly as the other man turned on his heel and padded out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet _click_. The ache of rejection surged up through Draco and he swallowed harshly, fear and hopelessness clawing at him so strongly that for a moment he feared he might die right then and there. In the end, though, it was fatigue, not Death, that had him leaning back against the softness of the mattress, letting himself fall into the sweet kiss of oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything was too bright. And cold - so very, very cold. Ever since Potter had helped him back to his room the other day, Draco had been feeling exceptionally off-kilter. His fever had spiked, pushing him into a vicious cycle of alternating chills and hot flashes; his head ached constantly, and the prickling shivers that raced through his body were so closely reminiscent of the Cruciatus Curse that he'd had no less than five panic attacks in the past three days. To top it all off, that Seventh Year Ravenclaw wouldn't stop hexing him, the bruises and welts she caused only adding to the pain that raged through his body. He'd taken to cutting through abandoned wings of the castle in an attempt to avoid her between classes. The memories provided by those dusty corridors were harsh, but he was desperate.

It was during one such trek a few days later that his body finally seemed to decide it'd had enough—a sudden dizzy spell on his way to Herbology had him sagging against the wall of some obscure part of the castle before slowly slumping to the ground, upon which his quivering limbs refused to do anything other than curl into a tight ball. He knew, on some level, that he should probably be concerned for his health, or at the very least the classes he was missing, but he couldn't really bring himself to care. He sighed, thankful at least that some of his other symptoms had backed off a bit since the whole Potter incident.

As if summoned, his nose have a sudden twitch, and he found himself pitching forward into cupped hands with a flurry of rapid expulsions.

"ixch! tsh! kch! ksh! tsh!" The desperate bursts spilled mercilessly from him with barely any time to draw breath in between, and he gasped for air when the fit was finally over, head falling back against the wall as he fought to keep his breathing under control - the last thing he needed at this point was a coughing fit.

The Slytherin didn't know how long he sat there, carefully measuring each inhale and exhale, but it could have been seconds or hours later that he felt a cool, firm touch suddenly press against his forehead. The Draco's eyes flew open, measured breaths forgotten as he took in the tall, blurred figure crouched before him in hallway, one hand reaching out to lightly trace the crease between the blonde's eyebrows. He flinched back with a strangled cry, eyes clenching shut reflexively the stranger whispered an unfamiliar spell, and braced himself for the onslaught of agony that was sure to follow.

Instead, though, the blonde noted a gentle coolness begin to spread through his head, filling the space behind his eyes and dulling the ache that resided there. Draco released a shuddering breath of relief, tension seeping from his shoulders as another hand came up to gently knead at his temple. He unconsciously leaned into the touch, grey eyes blinking open to find a pair of emerald orbs peering worriedly into his.

"I thought I told you to rest," Potter chided softly, brow furrowed in concern, and Draco bit back a whimper as the burning heat in his skin eased away where Potter's cool hand was cupping his face. They were startlingly close, he realized, close enough that he could see the faint worry lines around Potter's mouth, the small flecks of gold in his green irises. He barely registered as Potter moved to press the back of a hand against Draco's forehead, frowning at the burning heat he found there.

"Why are you even out of bed? You're in no condition to go to class," the taller boy admonished. The raven had had a few days to think over their encounter earlier that week, and had, after much grumbling, come to the begrudging conclusion that the blonde seemed genuine in his apology, in his regret. Harry had seen enough in Sixth Year and during the war to know that the paler boy had never truly been one of the Death Eaters, not in the way that counts.

"Why do you care?" the blonde mumbled dazedly, and then winced as he realized what he'd said. He steeled himself for the moment when the other man would finally remember just _who_ exactly he was helping and leave Draco to drown in the aftermath of his mistakes. To his continued shock, though, Potter just began swiping a gentle thumb back and forth across the Slytherin's cheekbone, green eyes open and searching and so different from anything Draco was used to seeing that it made his head spin all over again.

"Why don't you?" the raven questioned softly, and Draco swallowed, eyes flitting away from the other boy. _Why didn't he care?_ Why would Potter even ask something like that? Surely he couldn't be that dense. Why would _anyone_ care about the selfish, cowardly little Death Eater who couldn't even stand up against his own father? He didn't _deserve_ to care about himself, let alone have _others_ care about him.

"Can't jus' skip class," the blonde sighed at last, ignoring Potter's other question. "The Ministry—they're...waiting for me to- to fuck up." Putting his thoughts into words was becoming an effort, and he wasn't sure why he was admitting this to _Potter_ , of all people. Merlin knows the boy has enough on his plate without adding Draco's whines to the mix.

The taller man stilled in his ministrations, jaw tensing at Draco's words. Perhaps he was about to curse Draco for being pathetic enough to allow something like a fever to stop him from serving his legal sentence. Or worse, perhaps he just couldn't take the reminder of who Draco was, of what he'd done, and was about to abandon him there in the dingy corridor floor. The blonde whimpered at the thought, turning away as shivers began to wrack his body again. He didn't even realize he was crying until a single, hot tear slipped down his cheek, pooling in the dip between Potter's thumb and forefinger. It was quickly followed by another, and another, and then soon enough there were two steady rivulets running down the sides of his face as shame burned through his body.

The last thing he expected was for Potter to make a small, startled sound in the back of his throat, moving his hands to cup both sides of Draco's face and tilting it back towards him. Callused thumbs swiped slowly across the tear tracks on his cheeks, and Draco choked back a sob at the gentleness of the action. It'd been so long since someone had touched him like this, like they cared about him, and the fact that it was _Potter_ of all people only made it more confusing. A strangled whine escaped the back of the blonde's throat, and he curled into himself, tucking his head against his knees as silent sobs began to shake his frame.

Harry, whose hands were dislodged by the movement, hovered nervously beside the weeping boy. What the bloody fuck was he supposed to do now? He had no doubt that Malfoy was half-delirious from the burning fever raging through his thin body, but that still left him no closer to knowing how to comfort the boy. The last time he'd seen Malfoy cry had been in Sixth Year, and that had _not_ ended well for either party. As the other man continued to sob and whimper before him, though, Harry knew he had to do _something_.

Steeling himself, he scooched forward to sit parallel to shuddering blonde and, sending a quick prayer up to Godric that Malfoy wouldn't hex his balls off for what he was about to do, tugged the smaller boy into his lap. Malfoy gasped at the sudden motion, immediately sending him spiraling into a coughing fit, and all Harry could think was _shit shit shit_ as the blonde began to sputter and convulse in his arms. This was _not_ what he'd had in mind. Fortunately, though, the fit only lasted a few seconds, leaving the smaller man to slump exhaustedly into Harry's chest. Malfoy was completely limp against him, the only sign he was alive at all being the weak, warm puffs of air against Harry's shoulder and rapid pulse beating where their chests were pressed together.

Harry inhaled sharply, muscles tensing where he touched the other boy. He'd never been this close to Malfoy before. They were so close, in fact, that each inhale of his brought Malfoy's light, citrusy scent wafting through his lungs, filling his head with a light, heady sensation. Wait...was he _smelling_ Malfoy? Harry cringed. He knew the git was attractive, but _really_? That was a new level of weird, even by his standards.

The quiet sniffles started up again, drawing the raven from his thoughts, followed quickly by the soft patter of teardrops hitting the fabric of Harry's jeans. Harry clenched his jaw, something fierce and protective welling up in him for the boy in his arms. Malfoy seemed so vulnerable right now—breakable, even—and it worried the taller boy to no end. Harry didn't know why he suddenly cared so much for the Slytherin, but a voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Hermione told him it wasn't exactly the first time he'd been concerned for the other boy. He knew that, if left to his own devices, Malfoy would just wind up in another situation like this, if not worse.

With that in mind, he carefully gathered the blonde against his chest and pushed to his feet, frowning at the lightness of the other boy. Malfoy groaned at the sudden change in elevation, his head falling against Harry's shoulder as silent tears continued to run down his face. The taller man sighed at the intense heat he felt still pouring from Malfoy's overly-warm body, and quickly began to making his way down the corridor towards his private rooms.

oOOo

Harry was growing more and more worried the longer it took the blonde to wake up. He'd passed out at some point along their journey to Harry's rooms, and since then the Gryffindor'd managed to shower, write Ron and Hermione telling them he'd likely be busy for the next few days, and even drop by the Hospital Wing to nick some potions all before blonde even began to stir. He'd been able to force some of the fever-reducing potion down the Malfoy's throat when his temperature had begun to spike well into the low-forties range, but even then the boy had just blinked up blearily at him before passing out again.

It'd now been well over four hours since they first got to Harry's rooms, and the Slytherin had yet to do anything other than roll over on the bed and mumble incoherently in his sleep. He was doing that now, actually - little distressed whimpers that drove Harry mad with concern. He'd done everything he could to ease the other boy, short of dumping an entire bottle of Dreamless Sleep down his throat (he needed those potions for himself, anyway), but to no avail.

Sighing, he settled with Levitating a chair to the side of the bed, and waited.

oOOo

Draco woke with a groan, eyes squeezing shut against the soft rays of light that filled his vision. He distantly remembered something about a cold halls and green eyes, and had half a mind to wonder how he'd managed to make it back to his dorms.

There was a rustling sound from somewhere to his left, and instantly the pale boy stilled, all traces of sleep vanished from his body as realized he wasn't alone. Slowly, he reached a hand beneath his pillow (which smelled weirdly good, for some reason) for his wand, but his fingers closed around empty air. His pulse spiked. _Where was his wand?_

"Malfoy?" a voice cut through the otherwise silent air of the bedroom, and Draco jumped, snapping straight up in bed as he whirled to face the intruder. He barely had time to take in the rich, warm colors filling the walls and smooth mahogany accents before true, cold panic began to set in. _This wasn't his room._

The last time he'd awoken to unfamiliar surroundings had been the week before his trial, when he'd blinked his eyes open to find the dark stone ceiling of the Ministry holding cells and a throbbing ache behind his eyes. This wasn't the Ministry, but that did nothing to ease his fears. Had someone finally decided to give him the punishment he'd so narrowly avoided earlier that year? He scrambled backwards on the bed until his back struck a wall, heart hammering in his chest. His blurred vision caught sight of a tall figure looming at the other side of the bed, their arms extended towards him, and he panicked. They were going to torture him. He couldn't - he couldn't take that; not again, not after the Dark Lord-

A hand wrapped around his wrist, and he shrieked, burying his head against his knees as terrified sobs began to pour from him, vicious shudders wracking his body as memories of white-hot pain flashed through his mind. It was supposed to be over. The pain was supposed to be over. The Dark Lord was dead. He was gone. Why couldn't it be over?

Draco curled himself into a ball, desperately trying to remember how to breathe, but all he could think about were the two red eyes staring at him in his dreams, cold and ruthless and so very much _alive_ and—He didn't even realize he was hyperventilating until something warm and firm was shoved against his chest, a strange, prickling warmth flowing through his lungs and forcing them to slow their movements. He was so relieved by the sudden influx of oxygen that he barely noticed the second hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, an opposing coolness spreading through his mind and filling it with something peaceful and quiet. _Calming Charm_ , he realized distantly.

Draco sighed, sagging back against the wall and closing his eyes as shivers continued wracking his body as aftereffects of the fading panic attack. He didn't know how long he remained like that, gentle waves of magic continuing to pulse from the touch on his chest and neck, but when he finally gathered the strength to look up again, he found himself face-to-face with one Harry Potter. At least he wasn't surprised, this time.

Potter slowly removed his hands, but Draco was pleased to note that the soothing warm of his magic continued to flow through him, guiding his breaths and stilling his thoughts. Without thinking, Draco reached out to clutch blindly at one of Potter's retreating hands, lacing their fingers together tightly as he tried to ground himself. Potter's eyes widened, but he didn't comment, simply opting to give Draco's hand a reassuring squeeze.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the only sounds being their quiet breathing and the occasional sniffle from the blonde. Finally, Potter cleared his throat a little awkwardly and disentangled his hand from Draco's. The warm magic flowing through the Slytherin's chest began to dissipate as well, and he bit his lip against a disappointed whine.

The raven offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I should have thought about how you might react to waking up in a unfamiliar place."

Draco frowned, glancing around at the rich colors decorating the large room. He still had no idea why he'd been brought here. Or where 'here' even was. He told the other boy as much, and Potter's cheeks darkened, clearing his throat awkwardly as he refused to meet Draco's eyes.

"These are, uh, my private rooms. They're closer than the Eighth Year dorms, and I figured it'd be more convenient than me walking back and forth to check on you all the time."

Draco blanched. "You...what?"

If possible, the other boy's blush deepened even further, and he brought a hand to sheepishly rub at his neck. "I wanted to make sure you'd be okay," he mumbled, looking uncharacteristically shy.

"So you brought me to your rooms," the blonde deadpanned.

"Well- yes. But it's not like that!" Potter burst, hands waving frantically before him as though to demonstrate his earnestness. "I just..." he paused, brow crinkling. "I'm worried about you, Malfoy," he said at last, emerald eyes lifting to pin Draco with an intense stare.

Draco froze, mind whirling as he tried to process what was going on. Potter was... _worried_? About _him_? The Death Eater? Childhood nemesis of seven years? It didn't make any sense. The Slytherin felt the beginnings of another headache start up behind his eyes, and had half a mind to wonder if this was all some sick joke set up by the Gryffindor and his cronies.

"I..." He didn't know where to start. "I need to go," he blurted, scuttling down towards the edge of the bed. Potter moved to help him stand, but the blonde boy batted him away.

"I don't need your help," he hissed, pushing himself off the large mattress.

"Malfoy, don't be stupid; you're in no condition to walk on your own," Potter pleaded, exasperated, but the blonde was already on his feet, stumbling away in what he hoped was the direction of the exit. He made it all of three steps before veering sharply to the left, blindly reaching out for the wall to his side as his knees buckled beneath him.

Potter was at his side in an instant, strong hands keeping him from crashing face-first to the floor as the taller boy shifted to keep their balance. They ended up standing chest-to-chest with Potter's hands clasped firmly around Draco's forearms, holding him up as he peered down at him.

Potter sighed. "Look, Malfoy, I'm not forcing you to stay here. You're free to go if you really want. But you really aren't well, Draco. I wish you would just let me help you."

The blonde's head jerked up at the sound of his first name, eyes wide with shock as he gazed at the Gryffindor. Slowly, his eyes moved to fall back down to the carpet, where he stood solemnly as he contemplated his options. All his instincts screamed at him that he should hightail it out of there, leave Potter and his stupidly green eyes and stupid kindness for someone else to deal with, but...he really didn't want to. Something in him was pulling him towards the other boy, and, just like every other time he felt it, he found himself unable to resist.

"...Malfoy?" The soft voice jarred him out of his thoughts, and Draco blinked to realize he'd been glaring a hole into the spot near his feet for some time now.

"I...fine," he muttered begrudgingly, voice coming out quiet and unsteady for reasons entirely unrelated to his sickness. He cleared his throat. "Fine, I'll stay," he said louder, ignoring the way the other boy's face seemed to brighten at his words. "But it's only because it's far too much work to sneak back to the Eight Year dorms," he added with a sniff, fighting to keep his cold expression in place as the other boy positively beamed back at him.

"I wouldn't expect anything else, Malfoy," Potter grinned, and slowly he helped Draco shuffle back towards the bed.

The Slytherin settled back against the headboard, eyes darting away as he shrugged off his outer robes and tie, folding them neatly and placing them at the foot of the bed with a carefully blank expression. Harry walked over to the wooden dresser at the side of the room, grabbing a faded red t-shirt and some sweatpants and holding them out to Malfoy.

"Here. Uh, if you want, you can wear these, to be more comfortable and all," he offered awkwardly.

Draco - it was hard to think of him as Malfoy now, given that he was sitting in Harry's bed - looked at the clothes in surprise, and then up at him, before tentatively taking them from the darker boy's hand. "Thanks," he mumbled, and Harry shrugged.

"I'll just, uh..." The raven pointed towards the door, and then quickly scurried away without another word, shutting the door behind him.

Draco sighed as he finally found himself alone, shoulders drooping as he forced his muscles to relax. This whole week had been such a confusing blur; he was having a hard time keeping up with anything that was going on. He muffled a cough into his shoulder, slowly dragging a hand up to his collar to begin unbuttoning his shirt. Why was Potter being so nice to him? Just days ago, he'd accused Draco of harboring some sort of nefarious scheme to murder all of Hogwarts. What had changed?

He slipped his shirt from his slim shoulders, shivering as the cool air hit his exposed skin. "Draco Malfoy," he sighed to himself, "you truly are pathetic."


End file.
